Buster never did like me. From the day I bought him I knew he was trouble but she had been so depressed at the time about what she had discovered from the doctors that I pushed past the dogs obvious distaste for me and gave him a good glare in her lap before driving home. We had been trying for kids for a few months. It took a lot of convincing on her part and well, hn, she always did have particular assetsthat always did the trick but mind you that wasn't the only thing that had won me over.

I had seen her once. When she wasn't looking. At the Chiba's house I could literally feel her heart stop when their freak of a child with unnaturally pink hair and devil red eyes reached directly for her. Supposedly Makoto had spent some time at Usagi's during her days off and would bribe the kid with sweets so naturally the little rabbit favored Makoto over the others. I couldn't blame her. And for once, she seemed less of a demon child and more of a neon sign that flashed in my mind with all the reasons why Makoto deserved this. Her eyes were bright with elation as she cooed at the baby in a soft soprano that sounded more silly than cute. She placed frequent kisses on little Usagi's cheeks and by God you would think I'd get jealous but instead I found myself laughing. It was a strange thing really. I never did enjoy watching people interact with kids but she had always been my exception to every rule...

It was then that the guilt set in. I was guilty of depraving her of the very dream she had safeguarded since the moment she realized she was an orphan. She prepared herself too, you know. She taught herself to cook, made sure she knew her way around a sewing machine, locked down all domestic duties and even practiced mixed Martial Arts just to be sure she could defend herself, her friends, her future family. And I guess that's when I kicked down my own preference for zero kids and started to consider the possibilities.

After all, it could be fun.

When I told her I'd given in, she nearly mauled me at the car. On our porch. In the kitchen. The hallway. And every which room there was on the way to the bedroom. If I had known this was what I had to look forward to by saying yes then I might have done so a lot sooner. No matter. After months of trying with no success, she scheduled an appointment with the doctor to see if she could receive any advice that might help better our odds. It was then she discovered she had some rare genetic mutation that subjected her to infertility. In short, she couldn't get pregnant.

The pain in her eyes was unbearable and as a man that was never good with words, I could only hold her as she sobbed into my shoulder. Afterwards, I knew I had to do something and then I found myself at a pet shop.

The little mutt was a scroungy looking thing with tattered fur, floppy ears and clumsy legs. I couldn't help but scoff at his pathetic appearance as the other, less ragged, puppies around him barked and wagged their tails excitedly like any good dog should. What came next was nothing short of shocking.

"That one," Makoto said.

When I noticed the direction she was pointing in I had to double-check in disbelief.

"Thatone?" I asked just to be sure, pointing at the shivering puppy that made no effort to act enthused though he now started to lazily lick his paw.

"Yes," Makoto smiled. "That one."

"Well, how 'bout this one?" I tried to suggest. "For one he's standing and he looks like he could haul a wagon of groceries when he gets older."

But Makoto had set her sights on Buster already.

"Please," she begged, those bright green eyes growing all the larger and my inner man scowling in defeat.

"Alright."

So, I bought him, named him from spite, and prayed he wouldn't be another disappointment that Makoto didn't deserve. Fortunately, the mangy mutt managed to pull through for me. And though he still growled whenever I came in with a possessive guard around Makoto, I still tolerated him for the fact that she had seemed, somewhat, back to her normal self.

In the mornings she would take him for a jog. When they got home she'd prepare her signature doggy special that he devoured with delight and in the afternoons, if she had time and he was really good, she would play fetch in the backyard. At night she'd force him to walk with us though he never allowed me to get as close as I wanted to her, but when we returned, he knew his place was on the ridiculously expensive doggy bed in the living room. From his puppy years, that was his routine, and it remained so even in days when Makoto had to take the rare business trip out of state and leave us on our own.

The first time I had Buster alone he wouldn't move for anything and I nearly called the pound just to scare him into submission. When Makoto returned he whined like a baby and I cursed his name before resigning myself to the couch with a beer in hand after realizing Makoto planned to coddle the pooch until he was satisfied. Damn dog. She was my wife and I was here first. She should be coddling me! Still, I shrugged it off, downing a beer and flipping through channels.

Every trip afterward grew progressively worse and I was certain that if Makoto was ever to leave for more than three days, she'd have a dead dog on her hands. Yet somehow, this time was different.

I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time as I watched him sit patiently in front of the door with expectant black eyes, and a stillness that made him almost look like a statue. If it weren't for his occasional foot falls where he'd have to readjust his sitting position, I may have mistaken him for a stuffed dog.

"Stupid dog." I murmured as I returned my attention to the TV. But I couldn't watch.

My eyes somehow found their way back to the mutt and then slowly to the door and before I knew it, I felt as though I had assumed the same position as Buster. Loyal. And waiting just to see her walk through that door.

"Shit."

I pushed myself from the couch and stomped off towards the kitchen, feeling stupid and more sober than I cared to be. In a hasty reach, I pulled the six-pack from the fridge and slammed it onto the counter with a single can in my free hand. I turned and almost flinched. The dog had moved. In the kitchen entrance he sat with droopy eyes and a steady breathing that made him appear as though he were discouraging me from doing what I wanted. Makoto never did like when I got drunk but given the circumstances, I really couldn't see the problem.

"What?" I shouted towards the dog, his expression unchanging and his posture completely perfect. It was like looking at an old sage who was all knowing and wise and somehow guilt found its way to my conscience and I couldn't push myself to get drunk.

I dropped the can and leaned over the counter, feeling sick. My body ached, my chest was sore, and the release I wished would come soon only distanced itself even further as I tried to calm myself down. A churning in my stomach appears when I feel a small head nudge at my leg and coldly, I look down and catch a sentimental wag of his tail.

I sigh in defeat, grabbing his leash from a cabinet and linking it to his collar. Obedient and ready, he is unusually willing to follow me out the door. Makoto would find this to be a monumental moment, I'm sure. But I disregard the thought and find myself squinting in surprise as the sunlight still shines through the partly cloudy sky. In my wrinkled shirt and torn up jeans, I kick away the carefully wrapped packages at the door and lead Buster the short distance to my truck and guide him inside. In seconds we're on the road and instead of hanging his head out the window like a normal dog, he solemnly sits in the passenger seat as the familiar route winds down to the nearly finished home Makoto and I had just bought together.

As I pull into the driveway, I unlink Buster's leash and reach over to push his door open.

"Go on," I say. "Go do whatever it is you do."

He looks to me plainly, then goes without whining to jump from the truck.

I shove my keys into my pocket when I step out and the large oak tree Makoto had begged to have planted in the front yard is standing crookedly in the middle of her planned out Zen garden. Recent storms must've forced the oak in this awkward direction, I reason, and with a numb hand I touch the sturdy wood for no particular reason. Maybe I could get some landscapers to straighten it out before she sees it, I doubt it would take long. Quickly, I disregard the thought and walk away to peek around back.

Buster's nowhere in sight but doubt he's gone far. The inside from the windows looks nice enough but I concede there's no real reason to go inside and see for myself since the first walk through isn't scheduled for another week. But a prowling reality rips through me and I work hard to ignore it as my feet hasten to my truck.

Without thinking, I jump in and drive. Reaching the corner before I realize I've forgotten something.

"Nick, what're you doing? Buster's back there!"

I can't help but laugh. If only she were in the car to yell at me then the joke would seem so much more worth while. I look to the passenger seat, picturing her flaring green eyes and undeniably cute pursing of her lips as her auburn curls brazenly bobble around her cream face.

"Go get him!"

"Why should I?" I nearly question with a smug grin but refrain once I realize it would probably deem me mentally unstable to speak with an invisible image of my wife.

From the rearview mirror I can see him standing there, staring after me as if expecting me to turn around. He's smarter than I give him credit for. I never expected he'd notice me drive off, hell, I didn't even notice myself. For a brief second, I smirk, thinking fondly of how Makoto will react when and if she found out what I was doing. For a long time the car stays idle as I consider turning around in a joking manner and letting him in with a "just kidding" for good measure. Maybe I'd even pet him behind the ear and in good humor he'd open his mouth and drool all over the interior. Then Makoto would really be impressed that the two of us had finally been able to find a level of mutual acceptance after our years of indifference. When she got home, she'd be so proud...

I scoff, my vision blurring and my hand shoving the gears into drive. My throat is scathingly dry and the pain in my body returns with a vengeance. I take one last look in the rearview mirror and he's still in the same, recklessly hopeful, position.

"Stupid dog," I say to myself and daringly so as if secretly hoping that somewhere in my ear her voice will ring in reprimand. But it doesn't. And I'm so much more the idiot for thinking the dead could talk. I push on the gas petal until it can go no further and the dog is left behind staring after another owner who'll never return.

Thank you for reading. This was my first attempt at writing with a prompt? Is that how you say it? Anyhow it was Angsty April on the coolest livejournal group/thing (sorry I'm still pretty unfamiliar with the terminology) I have ever seen. It is pretty much a place for all things shittenou and the like. Anyhow, thank you for reading.

JPandS